


The Citric Acid Cycle Series: Part 6 by Chris_Quinton

by pat_t



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 22:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14174967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pat_t/pseuds/pat_t
Summary: A series of loosely related Highlander snippets, male/male





	The Citric Acid Cycle Series: Part 6 by Chris_Quinton

**Author's Note:**

> A series of loosely related Highlander snippets, male/male.  
> Parts 1 & 4 by Elistaire; Parts 2, 3, & 5 by Pat, Part 6 by Chris_Quinton

** Part 6: by Chris_Quinton **

MacLeod sat up, pushing his hair back from his face. It hung in heavy coils about his shoulders, tangled from sleep and their loving. "I'm worried about Joe," he said. "Going blind like that. Shit, maybe it's a symptom."

"You mean a syndrome. Too many draughty keyholes," Methos snickered, and rolled over to watch him drowsily. "Watcher's Syndrome. It finally caught up with him."

"I'm serious!" MacLeod protested. "If he keeps having episodes like that - oh, God! It could be a brain tumour! You've been a doctor, what do you think?"

"That you're developing hypochondria-by-proxy," Methos grinned, and then took another look at his lover's anxious frown. MacLeod was serious, damn it. "Joe's fine. It's probably a subconscious censor-reaction."

"Huh?"

"What he can't see, he can't report."

"That's crazy!" MacLeod snapped. "You're a cynic, you know that?"

"Five thou years will do that to you," Methos conceded. "That or he's dazzled by - "

"When was the last time you were blind?" MacLeod interrupted. "Trapped in the dark with no hope of light!"

"I suppose you don't mean waking up in a coffin?" Methos sighed. That was a common and unpleasant facet of an immortal life. "Years," he admitted. "Probably centuries. But it always heals." He gazed around the loft, picking out familiar objects, the tall windows, the spread of morning sunlight across the rough walls and polished floor. Then, head on one side, he studied his lover, rediscovering the way that same light struck rich mahogany glints in the long dark hair, gleamed on the burnished skin.

To be blind, never to see this man again.

Methos shivered, suddenly cold. Instantly MacLeod turned to him, arms closing warm around him.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," Methos said quickly - too quickly, he acknowledged wryly, as those strong arms tightened. "Just several gaggles of geese tap-dancing on a selection of my graves." MacLeod didn't answer, just held him, and Methos slid his arms around the man's waist, splayed his hands across the powerful back. Then he closed his eyes and kept them closed.

Imagine endless night. Imagine darkness so deep you swam in it, lithe as a shark and as deadly; Methos took the dark and made it his own.

Know your enemy by his quickening, or hers. Know your lover by - what? The subtle empathy that had him reaching for you the instant pain struck deep? The scent of him, musk and amber, heady as wine? The satin hide over hard and supple muscles, and a mouth - oh, god, a mouth designed for sensuality, sex and sin and all kinds of follies. That mouth was investigating his throat, moist lips nipping, tongue gently tasting.

Methos turned his head, met the silken slide of long hair and nuzzled into it. Fine strands clung to his face, was caught in his morning-stubble, and snared by the moistness of his skin where MacLeod's kisses had left their invisible mark.

He explored the shape of the skull, traced an ear with his fingertips, the smooth, lobeless sweep into the jaw line. He didn't need sight to recognise that curve, knew it with tongue and lips - and teeth. Methos smiled, found the hard line of the eye socket, the thick, untidy eyebrow and touched long lashes. Then he rediscovered the line of the nose, the planes of cheekbones and the jaw that could jut as stubborn as a rock The fine skin was smooth, the night's beard-growth harsh silk under his hands. So very vulnerable. The head moved, and lips caressed his palm.

"I love you," MacLeod breathed.

"I know," Methos whispered. He rarely said it. MacLeod knew his feelings, so he didn't have to, did he? But sometimes it had to be said. "I love you."

~~~~~


End file.
